Page 46 of Lady Daring
Freddy clasped his arms around her, and his sister struggled in his grip. “Daring, is it?” Freddy exclaimed. “I knew it! He’ll be hearing from my seconds.”
“No,” Henrietta whispered, feeling the blood leave her face. “Can you not simply let him arrange for the babe? He is willing to mend things?—”
“How, you little fool?” Freddy snarled. “Look at her! She’s mad as a cat. Utterly ruined. No decent man’ll have her, no matter what m’father pays him. Daring should pay too, with his blood.”
“I want his heart,” Celeste wailed, sagging in her brother’s arms. “I want to rip it out andeatit! My dear darling would have me if not for Daring’s brat.”
For once, Henrietta did the prudent thing. She made a quick curtsy, hoisted her skirts, and raced out of the room. Her heelsclattered on the grand staircase as shrieks floated down from above. The butler glided to the door, his face blank and furious at the same time, and Henrietta barely swept her rumpled skirts out the door before Hemsworth slammed it shut.
“Well?” James called, guiding the horses to the curb. “Tied it all up in a bow, have ye?”
“Not quite.” Henrietta nearly tripped hurrying down the broad steps. “Her Grace tried to eat me alive, then Lady Celeste tried to eat me alive, and now Lord Alfred is going to call Lord Darien out in a duel. We must warn him.”
James clucked his tongue in disapproval. “Your cicisbeo’s after all, then?”
“He is not my escort, or my follower, or any other such thing,” Henrietta flared as James helped her into the phaeton.
“Why didn’t he slap a shackle on the nob’s daughter, then? Would’ve hitched myself to that honey wagon, I would’ve.”
“Darien said she was using him to incite the jealousy of another man,” Henrietta said. “Not the one she was affianced to, from the sound of things.”
“Gentry morts,” James scoffed. “Like he’s a Domine Do Little, or a bob tail, an’ that’s why she rattled off. When ye want to play the blanket hornpipe, miss, I hope ye pick a rum bluffer.”
Henrietta’s ears burned as she recalled, once again, Darien’s confusing, masterly kiss. His broad chest against hers, his arms tight about her back, the heat, the strange contrast of his skin feeling soft and smooth while his body was firm and hard. His eyes had been full of dusk and shadows as he’d learned toward her, but his kiss had been so aloof, analytical, as if he’d been conducting a scientific experiment.
Frogs jumped about in her belly. She did not want to repeat the experiment, and yet she did.
She urged her horses to a trot as they turned from Portman Square onto Seymour Street, which was clogged with traffic.“James, I am about to do something very unadvisable. There will be consequences if anyone finds out.”
“Like I’d cry rope on you,” James cried. “Rather ye box my ears and give me a powder and turn me off without a character. Ey, now, Miss Hetty, that van driver don’t see you! Mind you don’t catch ’is wheels or you’ll turn us into the gutter, and I don’t care to get my calf-clingers muddy.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“You’re in the basket if word gets round that you’re toddling up to a gentry cove ken,” James remarked as Henrietta drew her phaeton to a stop before Darien’s house.
“I don’t have much choice, do I? Am I to send over a note saying nice knowing you, but Celeste named you the father of her child, and now her brother is going to call you out? Forgive me if I’m not entirely certain how these things are done. If you’re concerned, you may be my chaperone.”
“And leave the Titans for the sharks and snafflers?” James eyed the crowd of small children who thronged the high wheels of the vehicle, hoping for a job and the bit of copper that would go with it. “If ’e does tup ye, all I’ll say is I told ye so!” he called as she ascended the steps and banged the knocker.
The steps to Darien’s house had not been whitewashed that day, just another way in which a bachelor residence differed from a ducal palace, and her own. It had not escaped Henrietta that, as spacious and rich as the Highcastle abode was, Hines House was inferior only in size.
Her father’s wealth, the result of hard work and shrewd investments, rivaled that of the ages-old propertied class. Little wonder the King used honors and titles to ensure that wealthkept bedfellow with status, and the rest of the unwashed could lie in the gutter, a hierarchy that God and king had perpetuated for centuries. It was so unjust. Perhaps a further topic for a Minerva Society debate, if her first were a success.
A young man in a golden frock coat and white periwig opened the door. “What a clutter yer makin’,” he griped.
Henrietta handed him her card. “Lord Darien, please.”
The lad scowled at the creamy card embossed with swirls and lace. “What do I do with this, then?”
Henrietta rolled her eyes. “You are a country lad, aren’t you? Give it to Lord Darien and announce me. Trot along now! It’s rather urgent.”
“You’d best come wit’ me then.” The boy turned and walked down a narrow hallway. At the back of the house, he went to a door and announced, “A girl ’ere what wants ye, an’ she gimme a card.” He thrust out the object as if the imprint of Henrietta’s female hand had soiled it.
Darien sat behind a large desk, papers tumbling about him, quill in hand. His hair was unpowdered and pulled back in a simple queue. He wore no neckcloth and only a waistcoat over his shirt.
“Good heavens,” Henrietta said, “you aren’t even dressed! What is the matter with your butler, bringing me to you like this?”
Darien gave her the strangest look, studying her as if he had not seen her in ages and was reminding himself of her features. Then he rose and put down the quill.
